


Tangible, Durable Proof

by ZehWulf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crafts, Fiber Arts, Fluff, Friendship, Gift Giving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26306233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf
Summary: No, thepoint, Crowley thinks that evening as he stalks the length of the plant room with his mister, is that he's Aziraphale's first, last, and best friend. If the angel is going to wear anyone's tangible and durable proof of their affection for him, it should be Crowley's.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 161
Collections: An Eventful Surprise





	Tangible, Durable Proof

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisasterdi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisasterdi/gifts).



> A little "hobbies" prompt fic for [bisasterdi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisasterdi) to say thanks for being such a lovely human being, a wonderful fandom events host, and for taking such good care of all of us over in the GO-Events Discord. I haven't written so much or so consistently in literally over a decade, and it's in no small part due to the activities she's organized and the supportive environment she's fostered. Thank you, friend! <3

Crowley receives a parcel in the post with roughly twenty bits of postage on it and a return address in the states. It's addressed to "Nanny and Francis" and contains a piece of lined paper that looks like it's been ripped out of a spiral-bound notebook. Two thin bands of pattern-knotted embroidery floss fall out of the paper as he unfolds it, and he has to fumble to catch them before they end up on the floor.

He stares at the bands, bemused, before reading the scrawled message on the paper:

_Hi Nanny,_

_Camp is fine._

_The red and black one is yours. I know you're shacking up with Brother Francis, so please give him the blue and green one. You can't take them off once you put them on or it's bad luck._

_Miss you lots,_

_Warlock_

He stares, first at the message, then at what he realizes are meant to be two bracelets in his other hand, for several befuddled moments. Then, he swallows, carefully, and makes his way to the bedroom.

The message gets tucked into a folder along with a few other short letters he's received from Warlock while he's been stranded at camp all summer. The black-and-red bracelet—the one Warlock made for him—gets carefully laid in one of the velvet-lined drawers where he keeps the more delicate souvenirs he's kept over the centuries: old timepieces, a snake-shaped cloak pin, a golden chain necklace Aziraphale had not gifted but not-not gifted him during a particularly convoluted, overlapping assignment, et cetera.

He hands Aziraphale's bracelet over when he picks the angel up for the drive up to Tadfield. Anathema and Newt are hosting an not-the-end-of-the-world anniversary party. Aziraphale is sufficiently distracted cooing over the bracelet and struggling to tie it on one-handed to leave off harassing Crowley over his city driving.

When they arrive, it's the first thing the Them zero in on.

"Is that a friendship bracelet?"

"Who made it for you?"

"I want to make one!"

Aziraphale relaxes under the uncomplicated, enthusiastic attention, and within the hour he's presiding over a table of miracled crafting supplies and giving the children a dissertation on knot-based fiber crafts. By the end of the afternoon, the Them are sporting three apiece, one from each friend. Adam solemnly presents Aziraphale with a bracelet in a pattern complementary to Warlock's. Aziraphale is visibly fighting back joyous tears when Adam ties it on for him.

Crowley, who had been conscripted early in the day into helping Anathema with party hosting nonsense, smirks in the moment, but something about it pinches at the core of him. When he sees Newt shyly approach Anathema with a surprisingly deftly constructed bracelet he'd been working on, the pinching upgrades to a stab.

The whole drive home, Aziraphale chatters about the day, their plans for the night, and the play they're set to see the next evening. All the time, he fiddles with the bracelets. Crowley holds himself very still.

"You really going to wear those until they fall off?" he asks, somehow keeping his tone dryly amused.

Aziraphale still cuts him a disapproving glance and folds his fingers around the bracelets protectively.

"Of course. The boys worked hard on them. And it is rather the point of this style of bracelet."

No, the _point_ , Crowley thinks that evening as he stalks the length of the plant room with his mister, is that he's Aziraphale's first, last, and _best_ friend. If the angel is going to wear anyone's tangible and durable proof of their affection for him, it should be Crowley's.

With a half-stifled snarl, he throws himself into his throne and pulls out his phone to do some research. An hour later, with several video tutorials under his belt, a pattern searched out and deciphered, and the finest embroidery floss an infernal miracle can liberate from the local craft store, he's ready.

Within about five minutes he remembers why he gave up fiber crafts as a bad job a few millennia ago. Unlike plants, fibers—of any kind—will not be bullied. He's pretty sure, the third time he has to pick out several rows of knots because he'd just noticed one of the colors is peeking through wrong, that fibers are sneaky little shits out to ruin his life personally. Of course, he has no one to blame for picking out an advanced pattern for his first go round in nearly three thousand years but himself. However, by the fifth time he's had to start over nearly from the beginning because he lost his place in the pattern trying to fix a mistake only two or three rows up, he's more-or-less gotten the hang of it.

He grumbles and gripes and mutters bits of the pattern over out loud to keep track, but by the following morning he has a completed bracelet he's satisfied enough with to present to his angel.

"Here you are," he says that afternoon as he tosses the bracelet onto the open pages of Aziraphale's book.

"Oh!" Aziraphale gasps. "Crowley, did you make this?"

Crowley knows he should be feeling smug at the way Aziraphale reverently touches the knotted threads. All he has is jittery embarrassment.

"Amazing things, miracles," he croaks out, missing flippant by a lightyear as he collapses onto the bookshop sofa.

Aziraphale fixes him with a chiding look and rubs his thumb over a knot where the color ended up flipped but Crowley had been too manic to care anymore. Crowley brazens the look out with a twitchy grin.

"Put it on me?" Aziraphale says instead of calling him out, which is its own sort of mercy.

Crowley grunts his assent and sits forward.

The old clock on the wall ticks loudly as Crowley ties the bracelet over Aziraphale's wrist, just above the ones from Adam and Warlock.

"You did a marvelous job matching the colors to the ones the boys made," Aziraphale compliments. "I'm not sure I've seen this design before, though. It's quite intricate." He raises his eyebrows, gently inquiring.

Crowley shrugs, fingers lingering over the ends of the final knot that ties the bracelet fast until Aziraphale links their fingers together.

"Think it's supposed to be like riff off a peacock feather, but…" He swallows and squeezes their fingers together. "Reminded me of your eyes. You know, your other ones," he says with a vague wave at the ether with his free hand.

Aziraphale beams and brings up their entwined hands for a kiss. "I adore it," he says.


End file.
